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Summary
“Fuck you,” Haymitch had spit through gritted teeth.
Seneca had breathed a weak laugh, holding a palm to his stinging jaw. “Why don’t you just fuck me yourself, you coward?”
It had then occurred to Haymitch, seething with pure rage and having nothing good to do with it, that the man made perfectly good sense. So he fucked him. Again and again. For years. For decades, really — until it stopped feeling like retaliation and started feeling like something worse. Something he couldn’t dismiss as survival or spite. Something uncomfortably familiar.